


To bolt and to be bold

by Illidria



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Day 3: Acceptance, F/M, LLF Comment Project, What a combination, fluff and a funeral, livmilesweek2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 12:44:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12794838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illidria/pseuds/Illidria
Summary: Olivier Mira Armstrong struggled with big emotions, especially if they were of the positive kind. Laughing out of true mirth was hard, got harder depending on how many people looked. Love though, that was way harder...





	To bolt and to be bold

**Author's Note:**

> Day 3 of this wonderful LivMilesWeek!
> 
> Everything I've seen so far has been wonderful and to think that there are three more days to go :D

When he got down on one knee and presented her with the ring, she stormed out.

Not immediately, but after staring at him open-mouthed for a couple of seconds, feeling like hours to him. Turned on her heel, no jacket, no shoes, out of the door and into the night.

He sat there shell-shocked in the direct wake of it, wasn’t sure for how long. Got up then, looking into the small hallway, seeing her parka on the hanger, her boots beneath it, both where they weren’t supposed to be. Put his own jacket on, his own boots, worry rising in him. It was December, with heavy snows and bitter-cold winds. She'd freeze. He grabbed her boots on the way out.

Hastened through the staircase of the hotel, barely remembering to close the door to their rented apartment and take the key.

Maybe it had been the wrong moment to ask her, maybe she'd hoped for something fancier. They’d just sat on the couch after a long day of negotiations at Central Command, had picked up dinner on the way and eaten on the couch, her scribbling on a sketchpad, him reading a book. They’d started to talk at some point, banter and jokes and compliments, jumping back and forth.

And then he’d wistfully said it, that he would love for her to be his wife.

Pulled out the box that was burning a hole in the pockets of all of his pants for weeks now, the ring in, it, getting onto his knee and presenting it to her. She’d not even looked at it.

Maybe she would’ve wanted him to ask her in a park, or in a restaurant. Maybe had expected a grand idea from him, something thoughtful and extraordinary, like she was.

Dashed out of the building, the only thing opposite of it the river. Looked left and right, trying to decide which direction she would've taken. When keeping to the left she'd sooner or later reach her family’s home, at which he ruled it out. She loved them, sure, but she wouldn’t run to them in a situation like this.

Walked to the right, following the edge of the river, seeing the signs of socked feet in the snow.

Felt guilty for just dropping his question on her, not taking her reaction personal. Olivier Armstrong was good at many things, tactics, diplomacy and, surprisingly, knitting. His shawl was testament to that. But she was stunted when it came to feelings, though she’d put it best herself.

"I suck at big emotions Miles, just so you know."

Shortly before telling him this, she'd bolted too.

* * *

 

It was a farce that his body was only released from the morgue after almost half a year.

They’d all already returned to the Wall, he together with Scar, to prepare for the Ishvalan restoration. The General was arguing on the phone almost daily, not only herself feeling the need to finally bury her men, but their families left behind too. One by one she'd gotten through to Central, got her men home, got them buried.

Buccaneer had been the last and had to be the most horrible to her.

Him and her had been friends, the best of friends, grown close over a decade at the wall. They’d saved the others live, fought together, ate together and she even was the godmother of his oldest child. She’d introduced him to his wife on a night out, had laughed at him for not saying a word and in turn they'd named their first daughter after her.

Miles knew the stories and saw her pain.

Walked by her side when following the casket, nobody in uniform, yet every Briggs Man easy to spot. When the date of the funeral got passed around, so did the news what Buccaneer had written in his will, that he wanted to see no uniforms. There was a lot of speculation as to what was the reason for this, some throwing in that he maybe got sick of the same old blue after all, others joking that he just wanted to make fun of their bad sense of fashion up on his cloud.

His wife had thanked the General for coming, for following her husband’s wishes. When she had inquired as to why, Miles had learned that Buccaneers children had always hated the uniform of the military, the thing keeping their father away for such long stretches of time.

Couldn’t shake the feeling that there was guilt in her eyes, the rest of her face a stony mask.

Stood next to the General when the priest drowned on about life and death, duty and honour. In this moment had only thought about his friend, gone from this world, though the children held by their mother at the same time a testament to him not being gone for good. Felt himself swallow around the lump in his throat when the folded flag was presented to his first-born, his son. Barely eight years old.

It was the only military honour his family had allowed, the one notion showing his children that their father was a hero, may the public acknowledge that or not.

He sung with all of the Briggs men in attendance when the casket was lowered, a tradition older than General Armstrong, older then her forerunner General Payen had been. It was a funeral tradition, born form the loneliness at the Wall, the absence of believes and the need for tradition. She'd asked his wife before if it was alright for her and the woman had nodded gratefully.

It had sounded like a sung prayer, he'd felt the tears slip from his eyes of their own accord and several moments of silence were needed after their song had ended, before the crowd finally dispersed, most moving in the direction of the cemetery building. Saw many wipe tears away, almost no talking heard. Had walked next to her again, seeing that her calm expression was forced.

And when Buccaneers wife had called out through the crowd, calling for Mira, the General had turned. He watched with many others when the late Captains daughter flung herself at the blonde’s legs, hugging them tight. Picked up and settled on a hip not a moment later, the woman sharing a nod with the girl’s mother.

Carried her namesake, six years old, black long hair on top of her head and the green eyes of her mother, whispering with her. Miles did not understand a word, though he saw the familiarity between the two. The tear-streaks on the youngers face, the stiffness in the olders shoulder-blades.

And understood that she wanted nothing more than to set the girl down and run.

When they reached the building, their stay for the funeral feast expected, the young girl handed over to her mother after some more whispering, she did. Looked the other way for a moment, had to compose himself yet again, as the child had started to cry once more when in her mother’s arms. That was when the General vanished.

He didn’t notice at first, the crowd around them thick and only when he turned to speak to her, met with Henschel’s mug, he noticed.

Went to search for her immediately.

Walked between the graves, looking for her hair, the black dress, the hat. Even in mourning she’d been a striking figure to him, had made his heart beat faster. Had planned to talk to her soon, their date of departure for Ishval drawing nearer. Was set on not leaving this particular open-end behind, to come clean with her, to be honest.

With every metre he walked though, he marvelled how much space she must’ve covered quickly. There’d been heels on her feet, suddenly only a handspan smaller than him, eyes so very close to his that it had been almost startling. Saw her then, leaning against a tree, well out of sight and well away from the crowd, too.

“General Armstrong?”

Stepped up to her, startled by her equally startled reaction. Averted his eyes when she composed herself, hoping for her to be still there when he turned back.

“Yes Major?!”

Sounded forceful, stern and strict and decidedly like she was acting. Caught on, spoke, with bravery he did not know the root of.

“Are you alright?”

“One of my best friends is dead, his daughter just asked me why her daddy is gone, you’ll leave in a few days for Ishval and ask me if I’m alright?! Are you out of your mind?!”

Took her harsh words without flinching, though a hint of hurt must’ve shown on his face. Now saw her avert _her_ gaze, bury her face in her own hands, breathing loudly and deeply.

“Sorry.”

Felt nothing but warmth for her, understood why she’d run. Knew her so long now, loved her for so long now.

“You’ve had a horrible day.”

Watched her breathe through her fingers, a blue eye peeking at him.

“You too.”

And that’s when the bravery had taken over, building up for years now, finally breaking free, the chain of being under her command broken.

Took her in his arms, held her tight and with a few choice words told her the truth.

Had learned that a hug was a good way to keep someone from bolting off.

* * *

 

“Mira!”

Saw her lean against a street-lamp, shivering violently, looking at him. Threw his scarf a her, pulled off his parka and bundled her up in it, pulled her boots onto her feet lopsidedly and took her in his arms.

“Sorry that I ran.”

Breathed into his neck, skin cold, words warm. He responded by holding her tighter and whispering into her ear.

“It was too much at once?”

Felt her nod against him, hugged her a little closer for a few more moments, before taking her hand and leading her back to the hotel. Walked up the stairs with her in silence, wondering suddenly if she’d thought about his question already.

If she’d run again, should he voice this aloud.

Let them into the apartment, found a pair of fresh and dry socks for her, willing her to sit down on the couch again. Pulled the wet fabric off of them, went to grab a towel. Saw her sitting there, head hung low, seemingly thinking.

Knew her to always feel guilty when she ran, big emotions often too much for her. She sometimes couldn’t handle being loved so much, had been gone suddenly often. Needed time to herself, to think and sometimes she just needed to run. Love was to her, what the predator was to the flight animal.

“I’m sorry Miles, for always being so difficult.”

Took the towel from his hands, dried her feet by herself, not looking at him. Cheeks burning with shame.

Put his hands over hers then, stilling her movements, skin so cold in contrast to his. Searched for her eyes until she couldn’t look away anymore, red irises meting a frozen pool of water. Underneath the surface though, raged a storm.

“Do you think you’d be better off without me? That things would be easier?”

No malice in his voice, only curiosity. Warmth.

Was shocked by how much she seemed to believe in her answer.

“You’d be better off without me!”

And like one sometimes did in utter shock, he started to laugh. Not about her, or the situation, just because his brain short-circuited and knew nothing better that he could do.

Her sobriety made way for bewilderment.

“What’s so funny about that?”

The answer coming to him unbidden.

“Nothing at all. But both of us believe firmly that the other would be better off alone, forgetting all the while that we’re so much better together.”

Her raised eyebrows staying where they were, though the corners of her mouth now lifting too, a laugh escaping her. Let herself sink against him, slipping down the couch and onto the floor with him, holding him tight, laughter overwhelming them.

And when their fit ended after several minutes, she took his arms and put them around her middle, indicating for him to hold her tight. Grinning at him, only saying one sentence.

“Now ask me again!"

He laughed, and then he did.

After a bit of struggling, she said yes.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. I invite you to leave:
> 
> _Short comments_   
>  _Long comments_   
>  _Questions_   
>  _Constructive criticism_   
>  _Reader-reader interaction_
> 
> I reply to every comment, though it sometimes takes me a day, or two.
> 
> I thank you for reading this fic of mine through to the end. I appreciate all comments and kudos and should you want to get into direct contact with me [this is my tumblr](http://illidria.tumblr.com/)


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